“Blue, um, power suit,” Riccardo busts my chops, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. He’s drinking his black coffee and wearing a grey suit. The salt and pepper color in his manicured beard doesn’t distract from how handsome he is being both Italian and Israeli. But her prefers life alone. His light hazel-green eyes watch me over his paper cup, amused.
“What? Should I be wearing black?”
“Your funeral.” He smirks.
“You fuck.” I give him a half-cocked grin. “What, you want to pick out a pine wood box as well?”
“Oh hell no. God, if you pull this off, you’ll be like the king of kings.”
I tuck in my white dress shirt and run my hand over the stiff collar before I slide into my matching jacket. It’s easier to wear than carry. I pick up the black briefcase with my free hand and we’re out the door.
“Maybe I am dead already.” I give him my best evil look before we break out in what might be called a nervous chuckle.
Riccardo opens my door, and I slide into the Rover. I like to drive my sports cars for fun, but the mundane work stuff, not so much. I hate traffic and I find myself cursing all the time, so it’s probably better for my health that Riccardo drives. Plus, I don’t carry a weapon.
Riccardo carries his old man’s revolver under his jacket, which I appreciate, especially on a day like today. But he’s even tempered, so I don’t have to worry about him flying off the handle in a moment of crisis.
We’re at the airport and walking onto the tarmac in under forty-five minutes. The airport is near Prato, a smaller suburb outside of Florence. It’s so old, only smaller planes land here, but I prefer it that way.
The flight takes no time at all so I mix myself a Bloody Mary on the way just because I’m thirsty and tomato juice is considered part of breakfast. It’s a fruit only red and not orange, so why the fuck not?
When we deplane in Rome, my black Ferragamo loafers hit the hot tarmac and I regret not arranging this trip in winter. Then again, that’s the time of year when we get lots of rain, so pick your poison.
We have a limo service waiting and make our way to the Mercedes van for the forty-five-minute drive to the meet. The closer we get to the Colosseum, the more congested the traffic gets. As bad as traffic is in Florence, Rome’s traffic is insane. Cranking my head around, I am finally able to see the back part of the beautiful ruin as we circle from the lower end and wind up the hill on a long bend, wrapping around it like Cleopatra’s deadly asp. I hope I’m not about to get bitten myself.
We arrive at the elegant Hotel Palazzo Manfredi and take an elevator to the terrace. The doors open, and with the sun directly overhead, the view of the Colosseum is breathtaking. The terrace is surrounded by glass windows and covered with a pale awnings that let the sunlight in but keeps out rain.
We spot our table immediately as I make out the face of Conti himself, surrounded by four others, younger, in their thirties and forties, no doubt his sons or capos. I approach with Riccardo on my heels, showing respect.
I extend my hand to Gio Conti. His eyes are dark and brooding. I can tell he’ll not willingly go for anything I’m about to propose. But he’ll learn submission before I’m done with him. I’m like a dog with a steak bone that way.
“Hello, Dante,” he says politely but coolly as he gives my hand a tight grip. We look each other in the eye and neither of us flinches. It’s like we’re kids playing a game of chicken. And here I had hoped he would be wiser at his age and stop making everything a challenge or an exercise in one-upmanship.
Riccardo suggests we sit, and the others follow suit. Conti doesn’t introduce his people, only one, who is his son, Mario. My extra bodyguards are standing at our backs, looking a bit conspicuous, but that’s how it’s done. No one else is on the terrace. It’s just us.
It’s the first time I’ve met Conti in person. He oozes the sliminess of the criminal world and I see in an instant that while he might dress up, he will never lose the cutthroat vibe of a desperate kid on the street willing to do anything, even screw over his daughter, if it means he’ll be a don for all eternity.
He loves power and games, perfect for the life he’s chosen. But as part of the older crowd, he’s about to get left behind as he doesn’t comply to our modern image. I doubt he realizes that.
“I’ll get right down to it. We would like to use the Port of Civitavecchia to move goods, and in return, we are prepared to offer you this.” I slide a paper towards him, showing the breakdown and his percentage.
He doesn’t even look at the paper. “No. I don’t have to let anyone in my port. I control it, it’s my lifeline, why would I share?”
“Don Conti, I promise you, we’re just bringing in goods. We won’t infringe upon your territory. You’ll make more money, and everyone is happy.”
He downs a scotch and slams the rock glass on the table. “I don’t need to make anyone happy but my wife,” he says, drawing the words out slowly with a bit of a huff before ceremoniously jabbing his elbow into his son’s ribs.
He has no idea I know his dirty secret. He’s had a long series of extra-marital affairs and I suspect he won’t be able to buy his wife’s forgiveness with another expensive piece of jewelry if she ever finds out what I know.
My lips never part, making my smile undetectable.
I order a couple of scotches for Riccardo and myself and we exchange pleasantries until we make excuses about having other business to attend to, which is a lie, and he knows it. This is all a formality. To be honest, I didn’t expect anything less of him given his reputation and prior dealings with my family. But how far will he go to resist our past agreement with him— the one he reneged on?
I’m a patient man in general, which is a good character trait for a don, but I have my limitations. He’s been screwing us over for years and spreading lies about my family. Fuck yeah, this is personal. His lies have been pissing me off for years, and nothing would please me more than to get the revenge my old man couldn’t.
I collect my briefcase, make a small half bow to show respect to Conti, and we leave with our guards following in their black business suits and Polaroid sunglasses, looking like the American Secret Service agents I see in the movies.
“Hmm, interesting,” Riccardo muses aloud as we make our way towards the elevator.